they have killed her, whom ever they may be. they, and I use small letters, do not deserve any acknowledgement in the most demeaning sense.
There is much written about her, and there will be more. Uncle Tahseen just wants her back, at least to get the burial that any human being deserves. Let alone a woman who spent most of her life serving humanity.
I just called Uncle Muthana, Uncle Tahseen's brother, in a ridiculous attempt to offer condolences to the family and to commiserate with them for their loss.
I should extend my condolences to all the Iraqi people and others that she's helped in her lifetime; they have lost their guardian angel.
She lived a life that most people only think of attempting, a life of giving. She died a good death, she died giving. That in itself is a nice slap & spit on the face of all those kidnappers that are just creating turmoil and devastating Iraq. She has died because she was doing good. That is DEFINITELY more than they could ever dream of attempting.
May God Almighty bless her in her final resting place many folds as much as she has helped others.
May the same merciful God, The Mighty Allah of the ninety nine names, and by his Greatest name, strike with all his infinite power & might, to the deepest of abysses of worldly and nether hell ALL those who have a hand in killing ANY innocents intentionally anywhere in the world, and those who intentionally want to harm Iraq, its development and path to peace.
AMEN.
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
Monday, November 01, 2004
Time
How long is too long? It’s been that long since I’ve last written.
Besides the ‘longing’ where did time go to?
‘As time goes by’ I think of my life, of what I’ve learnt or seemed to have wanted to learn and yet I have those scars that prove the experience; time heals all wounds, but it has no cosmetic surgery magic wand to remove all those scars deep inside of a soul.
It’s about time to let go and to embrace, to look at the glory of life as well as its misery and to mostly appreciate being alive to experience both.
Besides the ‘longing’ where did time go to?
‘As time goes by’ I think of my life, of what I’ve learnt or seemed to have wanted to learn and yet I have those scars that prove the experience; time heals all wounds, but it has no cosmetic surgery magic wand to remove all those scars deep inside of a soul.
It’s about time to let go and to embrace, to look at the glory of life as well as its misery and to mostly appreciate being alive to experience both.
Sunday, October 24, 2004
Nocturne
(excerpt from the Buzz issue 38/12.10.2004)
The days go by, I await impatiently as any lover does, to the sleepless nights and drowsy days of Ramadan. Anticipation makes my heart throb from the tips of my fingers to the ends of my curls, round and round till it vibrates energy, carrying me higher to unknown levels mystique.
... I close my eyes and smile, I am back to that life that I’ve only read about in long told tales, of nights and days, perhaps a thousand, maybe more by one, the spirit of humanity lives on in that little street down the old souk of Casablanca...
... It is not a mere cleansing process, rather, a purification of the psyche, the id, the spirit, the essence, call it what you may, the nether part of ones being that wakes us up of our somnambulist reverie when we forget for a moment who we are.
I dream of Palm trees and their beckoning fronds swaying to the mystical words whispered by dwellers of the night, of the crescent moon bowing its head in reverence of the day ahead, of the waters edge curling its grasp on the banks that it embraces. I dream of Iraq.
Body and mind abstain.
... January 1998, Ramadan in Dubai, My father hurries me and I stall… I am mesmerized b the echoing of prayer calls, and a spell is cast, I fall and tumble hopelessly in love with the melodious resonance across the twilight air, a rosy glow covers the shadows and for once it has a myriad of colours unlike any other.
As we prepare to set the table for Iftar, it should have been only natural to hear a soft knock on the front door; I peek through the curtains and see a little boy carrying two plates. As I open the door and greet him, he bows his head with a shy smile, passes me the plate and rushes away before I have a chance to thank him and his mom for their kindness, asking God to bless him & his family.
I turn back inside and look at my parents with dewy eyes and awe transcribed poetically on my face. I had just been hit by the sweetest and oldest of customs; share your blessings and delights with your neighbours. I felt lucky to have experienced this tradition, that may only have existed in the countryside of anywhere in the world. It reached out its hand and held me in Dubai, it may have been sixteen years since Casablanca, but humanity still thrives over here.
With age comes maturity, and a forlorn longing to the simpler past that we hurried at so we may grow up faster. Ramadan seems to bring back many of those times. It is not only a time for fasting and feasting, but a time for some spring cleaning of the soul. After satiating our earthly appetites, a need comes calling deep into the last third of the night to satisfy a never ending hunger for blessings & forgiveness. The spirit convenes in a multitude of ways with its creator and in those deepest and darkest of hours one finds solace from the scorching noonday heat of thought; revelation. A shroud of patience descends to envelope us, help us understand our fellow man, ourselves, our misgivings, our short-sightedness at a life we think of as eternal, and one lets go of worldly delights, of all that binds us from absolution. We thank the Almighty for being able to observe this holy month, for being capable of doing the good deeds to fellow humans as we must, for blessing us with life to see it for another year, It is then that we wish that all our days were Ramadan…
The days go by, I await impatiently as any lover does, to the sleepless nights and drowsy days of Ramadan. Anticipation makes my heart throb from the tips of my fingers to the ends of my curls, round and round till it vibrates energy, carrying me higher to unknown levels mystique.
... I close my eyes and smile, I am back to that life that I’ve only read about in long told tales, of nights and days, perhaps a thousand, maybe more by one, the spirit of humanity lives on in that little street down the old souk of Casablanca...
... It is not a mere cleansing process, rather, a purification of the psyche, the id, the spirit, the essence, call it what you may, the nether part of ones being that wakes us up of our somnambulist reverie when we forget for a moment who we are.
I dream of Palm trees and their beckoning fronds swaying to the mystical words whispered by dwellers of the night, of the crescent moon bowing its head in reverence of the day ahead, of the waters edge curling its grasp on the banks that it embraces. I dream of Iraq.
Body and mind abstain.
... January 1998, Ramadan in Dubai, My father hurries me and I stall… I am mesmerized b the echoing of prayer calls, and a spell is cast, I fall and tumble hopelessly in love with the melodious resonance across the twilight air, a rosy glow covers the shadows and for once it has a myriad of colours unlike any other.
As we prepare to set the table for Iftar, it should have been only natural to hear a soft knock on the front door; I peek through the curtains and see a little boy carrying two plates. As I open the door and greet him, he bows his head with a shy smile, passes me the plate and rushes away before I have a chance to thank him and his mom for their kindness, asking God to bless him & his family.
I turn back inside and look at my parents with dewy eyes and awe transcribed poetically on my face. I had just been hit by the sweetest and oldest of customs; share your blessings and delights with your neighbours. I felt lucky to have experienced this tradition, that may only have existed in the countryside of anywhere in the world. It reached out its hand and held me in Dubai, it may have been sixteen years since Casablanca, but humanity still thrives over here.
With age comes maturity, and a forlorn longing to the simpler past that we hurried at so we may grow up faster. Ramadan seems to bring back many of those times. It is not only a time for fasting and feasting, but a time for some spring cleaning of the soul. After satiating our earthly appetites, a need comes calling deep into the last third of the night to satisfy a never ending hunger for blessings & forgiveness. The spirit convenes in a multitude of ways with its creator and in those deepest and darkest of hours one finds solace from the scorching noonday heat of thought; revelation. A shroud of patience descends to envelope us, help us understand our fellow man, ourselves, our misgivings, our short-sightedness at a life we think of as eternal, and one lets go of worldly delights, of all that binds us from absolution. We thank the Almighty for being able to observe this holy month, for being capable of doing the good deeds to fellow humans as we must, for blessing us with life to see it for another year, It is then that we wish that all our days were Ramadan…
Thursday, October 21, 2004
Go, Go, Go Shorty... itshya birthday, we gonna party, like itshya birthday
hApPy bIrThDaY tOoOoO mEeEe
HaPpY BiRtHdAy ToOoOo MeEeE
hApPy bIrThDaY HaPpY BiRtHdAy
HaPpY BiRtHdAy ToOoOo MeEeE
HaPpY BiRtHdAy ToOoOo MeEeE
hApPy bIrThDaY HaPpY BiRtHdAy
HaPpY BiRtHdAy ToOoOo MeEeE
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
'Epiphanie du Silence'
To: Cadavre Exquis
Your style is exquisite, though I may have understood just a bit of it, but exqisite it is...
Continue your beautiful words that form such ugly visions at times, continue shocking; yet delicately, continue pleasing, yet intensely, continue your letters of suicide; yet passionately, continue your dark thoughts with blinding light.
Continue dying by being vibrantly alive.
Your style is exquisite, though I may have understood just a bit of it, but exqisite it is...
Continue your beautiful words that form such ugly visions at times, continue shocking; yet delicately, continue pleasing, yet intensely, continue your letters of suicide; yet passionately, continue your dark thoughts with blinding light.
Continue dying by being vibrantly alive.
Saturday, September 18, 2004
A dire need . . .
I’ve always felt the dire need
To be a body of water,
And beside it to lay & rest
My gravely heavy shoulders
I’ve always felt the dire need
To live beside the sea,
And of the sea a mist I breathe
Of all my dreams to be
I’ve always felt the dire need
To weep far into the ocean
To wash away my souls scars deep
Of betrayal from loves devotion
I’ve always felt the dire need
To whisper in your ears
Lay me at the waters edge
And wipe away my tears
Darkest nights create the dire needs
To rest a weary mind
To invite a lover into arms
Along a path entwined
And at these nights thresholds lie
Labyrinths of desires
Of love and hate and hunger pangs
And imaginations taking me higher
I’ve always felt the dire need
To live besides of thee
And of thine mist a breath I feel
That brings me to my knees
I’ve always felt the dire need
To live beside the sea,
And of the sea a mist I breathe
Of all my dreams to be
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
A delicious verbal meal
He spoke to me of memories gone, of a beauty he had seen, that I reminded him of...
He spoke of the Iraq that had been, of burying a sweet girl in a dress so green, what he's dreaming of...
He spoke and I sat there listening to the song that he composed, he stroked my feathers, my plumage of violet , red, blue and green.
And again, I envied the pain of my fellow compatriots, their agony, their day to day turmoils that had passed through them, and is now like a foggy window, being wiped with the back of a western hand.
In his mind, he wished and wished and wished. But you see, he can't wish backwards!
"You must have been born an artist", "You must paint and draw and have a show" and I said that I do, I paint the most glorious pictures of magnificent color with my fingers as plumes and my words as paint. Yes, I draw beautiful pictures with my words.
He felt, he thought, but he said differently...
I enjoyed all three.
The pleasure of the forbidden, beckons me!
And I enjoy. I will enjoy. Words are pleasure for my tongue to curl around and taste, for my eyes to rove and devour, for my ears to hear and recover and for my hands to twist around in knots the sentiments that we control to feel.
He spoke of the Iraq that had been, of burying a sweet girl in a dress so green, what he's dreaming of...
He spoke and I sat there listening to the song that he composed, he stroked my feathers, my plumage of violet , red, blue and green.
And again, I envied the pain of my fellow compatriots, their agony, their day to day turmoils that had passed through them, and is now like a foggy window, being wiped with the back of a western hand.
In his mind, he wished and wished and wished. But you see, he can't wish backwards!
"You must have been born an artist", "You must paint and draw and have a show" and I said that I do, I paint the most glorious pictures of magnificent color with my fingers as plumes and my words as paint. Yes, I draw beautiful pictures with my words.
He felt, he thought, but he said differently...
I enjoyed all three.
The pleasure of the forbidden, beckons me!
And I enjoy. I will enjoy. Words are pleasure for my tongue to curl around and taste, for my eyes to rove and devour, for my ears to hear and recover and for my hands to twist around in knots the sentiments that we control to feel.
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